This is actually an epilogue discarded from a story it no longer matched. That's probably what I get for writing the epilogue first. Ta to Joss for the read-over.
Brian has found a job in New York, better than the old one, and Justin has a job there as well, because Brian told them it was both of them or nothing, and after weeks of shit, years of crap, it's happening and it's finally happening. They'll both have beautiful, beautiful money and they'll have a beautiful apartment, and it will have a beautiful view that Justin will paint over and over again. They're at Babylon, beautiful Babylon, and they're drinking beautiful drinks and taking ecstasy because ecstasy makes everything beautiful like this.
Michael's here and he's beautiful, and Justin will miss him so much. He loves Michael, they made beautiful creations together. Emmett's beautiful in his goodbye crying, the most beautiful fag he could possibly be. Lindsay's beautiful, and she glows like an angel in the light from the beer adverts over the bar.
And Brian, Brian isn't beautiful, he's dangerous, but he made these people. Justin recognises the handiwork. Brian's an artist too, unknown, unrecognised, finding the right shape in the mess of flesh and blood and neurons that is a human being, seeing the greatest possible beauty of what's inside and bringing it to the surface by carving and cutting and burning the rest away.
Beautiful, beautiful night, beautiful Corvette, green-red-amber reflecting beautifully on the wet asphalt, and they're not at the bar anymore, they're in the bathroom in the beautiful loft. The shower's running and the light catches in the water droplets that run down the glass, captured in rivulets and rainbows and streams, and Brian is saying something to him and he seems amused.
"Come on, Sunshine," he's saying, and he comes up behind him and wraps him tight. "You can look at yourself tomorrow." Justin's looking into the mirror, he realises, seeing himself in Brian's arms. He's glowing, and Brian's smouldering, a night and day of mesmerising colour and light. He feels the snap of his memory taking in the image-- it's a collage of hair and eyes and skin and running water and sparkling, glittering glass. He's going to recreate this, but later, because right now Brian is recreating him with breath and voice and fingers, sculpting him into his natural shape. He's his own clay, being shaped by Brian's hands, and he's going to be so very fucking beautiful.
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